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Friday
The Warren is a heaving press of people. A mass of gyrating, sweaty bodies only intent on one thing – pulling before the night is through. The air is thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of too many people. The music is loud, pumping, driving a relentless rhythm into the punters' hearts.
“It's not changed then,” Sam shouts in Gene's ear, having to stretch up on tip toe to do it. Gene shakes his head and then watches as a grinning Sam is pulled into the crowd by Cartwright. He sniffs to himself and fights his way to the bar – he'll need a few more drinks before he's able to make a twat out of himself.
The Warren is 'under new management' and much more respectable for it – the vacuum created by Warren's arrest being ably filled by a local businessman only interested in profits. No longer the den of thieves it had been, the Warren now attracts an even more upmarket clientèle. Gene would never admit that he feels more out of place with these people than the petty villains that used to populate it – but CID has a permanent open invite from the very grateful owner and who is Gene to argue with that?
Copious amounts of alcohol later and Gene is more than happy to make a twat out of himself – dancing badly to music he hates, jacket off, collar undone, tie long lost to the press of people about him. He see Sam every now and then – there dancing with Cartwright and here pushing through the heaving crowd for more drinks. It's rare to see this Sam – the one that smiles openly and dances with no co-ordination, easily making a fool of himself and not caring. It makes Gene a little warm inside to see it – Sam seems to belong here now, ever since the train robbery, settled and safe.
Gene turns his attention to the sweet young something twisting about before him – all shining eyes and lust. She'd said he liked his shirt, said green suited him. Pride makes him pull his stomach in as the girl, all of twenty five, dances about him – sometimes they twine together, others she'll brush a hand here, there, and drive him a little higher. He knows she wants him and more than that knows that she knows he wants her just as bad. It's impressive for a man with enough whiskey in him to burn down a small house.
“You want to go somewhere private?” she asks, her accent placing her from Birmingham. Gene stops himself from wincing at the ungraceful tones and stares down at her. She's stilled now, pressed tight against him, and he can feel the hardness of his cock pressing against her. She grinds against him, causing friction enough to fry his brain, as she licks her bright, red lips seductively. Something switches off in Gene's brain, the part of him that feels guilty, and he nods, wrapping one of her hands in his, so tiny and fragile, and leads her across the room.
He's heading for the back fire door – it leads out onto the alleyway behind the club – and has enough sensibility left in himself to make sure none of his team see him. Ray and Chris wouldn't care, of course, but Cartwright and Sam are another matter. Particularly Sam. Gene doesn't really need to see those judgemental eyes when he's randy for the first time in weeks.
In the days Warren ran the club it wasn't unusual to see poofs and dykes as well as normal people getting off in the alley. These days the place is cleaner and the management make an effort to keep lewd acts to the minimum. This night, though, there are two blokes just down from the door – one on his knees before the other – Gene looks away as his stomach clenches instantly at the sight. The girl tugs on his hand and draws him down the alley, pulling him to her as she reaches for his belt.
Something makes Gene turn his head in the dull light, makes him look at the two blokes despite his better judgement, there's something familiar about the standing figure. The one with his cock in another man's mouth. Gene has to squint to see anything, the shadows draping the alley making it difficult to make out the features of the men. The standing man's shirt is pulled open and there's a hint of bare flesh exposed to the air, his head has fallen back against the wall exposing a stretch of neck soaked with sweat. Gene can hear the man's breath hitching as the kneeling man sucks at him indecently fast. There's something about the pattern of the breath, so familiar that Gene bats the girl's hands away and steps up the alleyway to see better.
Then it strikes him – short hair – there's only one person Gene knows that wears their hair that short. Sam. In the sudden moment of clarity Gene also notes that Sam is close to coming, and hard by the looks of it, hands gripping the other man's shoulder until they turn white about the knuckles.
“Sam?” he says without even thinking. Sam's head snaps forward and his eyes focus on Gene's.
“Gene? Oh – fuck -” and Sam comes with his eyes on Gene's face. It's something to see – those intelligent eyes unfocused, the body shaking with the sensation. Gene's still trapped in a state of detached calm, feeling almost numb – though part of him privately glorifies in being completely vindicated about Sam – as he watches his DI come in some bum bandit's mouth.
“Hey – you should've told me you like to watch.” It's the girl's less than dulcet tones that reach Gene's ears. He shrugs her hands away and continues to glare at Sam. There's a fear in Sam's face that Gene hasn't seen since the bomb case last year. The poof stands, stretching as he does so, tucking Sam away as Sam stares into Gene's eyes.
“Tyler,” Gene says this time, barking the word like an order. Sam straightens perceptively and the fairy jumps, turning to look at Gene as if he had no idea he was there.
“Guv, I -” Sam starts but Gene shakes a warning head.
“You're a copper?” the queer says, looking momentarily frightened. “Listen – I don't want any trouble -”
“Leave,” Gene says, not taking his eyes off Sam. “Now.”
The ... bender moves quicker than Gene would give him credit. He moves past Gene and collects the girl on the way. Gene'd be grateful if the concept of being grateful to a ponce didn't make him a little ill.
“Guv – Gene, I can explain,” Sam says, his eyes wild and frantic as he spreads his arms wide. Gene crosses the distance between them until he's standing so close to Sam he can smell the sex in the air and feel the heat of the him.
“You and I both know that neither of us should have seen what we saw, “ Gene says. Sam begins to interrupt but Gene stops him with a head shake. He's no longer looking at Sam but at some part of the wall behind him.
“So I saw nowt if you say nowt,” it's not a question. “And everyone else is none the wiser.”
Sam nods and Gene spins on his heel to stomp off down the alley. He thinks that Sam will say something if he doesn't get away quick enough so he doesn't even bother to go back into the club for his jacket. And if he walks fast enough maybe he won't think about how painfully hard he was when he watched Sam come.
Saturday.
It's the first Saturday off Gene's had in months. He's not used to having nothing to do and moves restlessly around the house until Clara tells him to settle at something or push off. Gene feels he should make an effort and offers to garden for her, even though he hates it. Clara laughs in his face and they end rowing loudly. This is what their marriage has been for months and the harder Gene tries to change something the more it seems to disintegrate.
All of which leads to him sitting by himself in the TV room, falling asleep to the sound of the match, when he hears banging noises upstairs. He investigates although he's certain he already knows what he'll find. Clara is ransacking drawers and wardrobes in their room and throwing what she finds into a battered suitcase. She glares at him when she spots him in the dressing table mirror, as if daring him to say something, but Gene is too tired to care any more. He stomps downstairs and pauses long enough to snag his camel coat before exiting the house into the warm Summer afternoon.
His feet take him to the Cortina and his car takes him to the Arms as if by instinct. He passes his sister-in-law as he exits his street but doesn't allow himself to react until he's sitting opposite the Arms. He punches the steering wheel so hard he hurts his hand and regrets it instantly. He jumps out of the car and heads into the pub with only one aim in mind – to get very, very drunk.
***
Gene stumbles into his house just after twelve. He spent the whole night avoiding Sam but the little bastard had still managed to corner him and take his keys away. Sam had a real thing about Gene not driving when drunk. It infuriated him. Something must have affected Sam though – because he didn't drive Gene home as he would normally and instead told him to walk it off.
Gene thinks that maybe Sam thinks that he's going to say something about Friday night. Sam should know that there's no way Gene could ever do that. Gene can't admit faults after all.
Gene snorts. This is Gene after too much whiskey – too honest about himself and everything around him
The house is empty, of course, considering Clara walked out before he did. He flops down into an armchair in the lounge, rubbing absently at his crotch and wondering where exactly the erection had came from. He was sure he didn't have it when he entered the house. Still – Gene's never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he unzips his trousers and shifts them down contemplatively.
He thinks of Britt Ekland and what she'd let him do to her. All those actresses are loose, aren't they, she'd probably even let him come in her mouth. Clara had never done that.
Underwear down now and Gene spreads loosely on the couch, feeling weightless with the drink, sprawling and lazy. He fists his cock slowly, breath quicker, and concentrates on images of naked, busty blondes.
He wonders what it's like to come in someone's mouth. None of the girls he went with growing up ever let him do it. Hell – most of them wouldn't even let him put his cock in their mouths in the first place.
A treacherous part of him reminds him that Sam knows what it's like to come in someone's mouth. Gene gasps as that thought sends an extra shiver of pleasure through him. He quickens pace – pushing the image, burnt into his mind, of Sam in that alley away, trying to replace it with something more normal. It won't go though.
The scene hovers in front of his mind's eye and Gene wishes he could stop wanking but knows for a fact that he can't. It's wrong to be thinking of this – of Sam's hands holding on tight to the poof's shoulders, of the sweat sliding down his neck, of the little thrusts he made, of his eyes boring into Gene's as he came.
He comes before he knows what's happening, body thrumming with it, the come sticking hotly to his hands. His breath is harsh in his throat and he stares at his softening cock as if it can explain how he could've possibly just come thinking about his DI.
Gene slumps back into the armchair and groans.
Sunday
The phone rings shrilly and Gene wakes with a start. He blinks blearily at the bedside clock as he instinctively reaches behind him to pat Clara apologetically for the call. There's no Clara. And it's one o'clock in the afternoon.
Gene feels like his brain is made of sawdust and his head of glass and that the sound of the phone might shatter it at any given moment and his brains will spill over the floor. He also can't remember how much he had to drink last night but assumes it must have been too much because he still feels it. He does remember wanking though. And remembers Sam...
He finds his way to the phone eventually, after stumbling around the house trying to remember where it is, and answers with barely more than a grunt.
“Guv?” Only one man can put that amount of irritation into one word.
“Tyler,” Gene says shortly. “What 'ell d'you want?”
“Your words are still slurring,” Sam says in the voice he reserves for being maddeningly superior. “How much did you drink last night?”
“Doesn't matter,” Gene's grumbles, not wanting to admit that he can't remember. “Why are you ringing on a Sunday?”
“There's a been a robbery,” Sam says matter-of-factly. “It's not gone well.”
“For us or them?” Gene asks, fighting his way towards sobriety.
“Both,” Sam says tersely and Gene thinks that there's maybe something Sam is hiding. “It's a real mess Guv.”
“Give me twenty minutes,” Gene says and drops the phone back in its cradle before Sam can reply.
***
Turns out Sam was understating the mess at the botched blag – it's not a sight Gene will soon forget. It also turns out that Gene isn't needed for this – all the villains died in the shoot-out with Gene's men. Gene doesn't mind being there though – it's important for someone to be there. Sam's shirt is covered in blood, he notes, he must have tried to save someone's life. Business as usual.
He still has a pounding headache when they get back to the station. Sam has been uncharacteristically silent on the ride back and Gene's not bothered with making conversation. It's not until Gene drops down wearily behind his desk that he realises Sam has followed him into his office and closed the door thoughtfully.
“This didn't have to happen,” Sam says and there's a familiar tone in the voice that Gene hasn't heard since, oh, since the train robbery. He thinks this is going to be a Hyde lecture.
“Not now, Gladys,” Gene says, trying to cut Sam off before he can get started.
“Gene,” Sam says, his voice edged. “I mean it – this shouldn't have happened.”
“I'm not interested in your Hyde ideas, Sam,” Gene says, anger starting to rise. “So shut it.”
Sam blinks as if he's been slapped and Gene realises that this is the first time they've exchanged heated words in a good few weeks. He wonders what's changed.
“Hyde ideas?” Sam quotes back, face twisting in annoyance. “I'll have you know that in...in Hyde the police don't die like that.”
“Oh, really?” Gene says, pushing to his feet. “Your men don't get shot at when a blag goes wrong? Oh, no, I suppose blags never go wrong in Hyde. I bet in Hyde you go in and convince the villains that everything can be solved by a nice cuppa. Biscuits and cakes all round.”
Gene finds himself in front of Sam, close enough to smell the blood on Sam's shirt, breathing hard and resisting the urge to hit him. Sam stares up at him, not backing away, Sam never backs away from Gene anymore. It's like Gene doesn't frighten Sam now. But then Gene has the suspicion that he never frightened Sam.
“No,” Sam says quietly and there's more in that one word than in all of Gene's. “It's not like that in Hyde. We just – we have people that are trained to handle situations like that.”
“So do we, Sammy-boy,” Gene snorts. “But would you put Litton in charge of that?”
He can tell Sam wants to say something – something that'll contradict him without implying that Litton is anything more than a useless tosser. Instead Sam just makes a face, twisting himself up in irritation. It's a strangely comforting sight.
“I don't need this,” Sam says, moving away. “I don't need this any more.”
He pushes through the doors and disappears into the office. Gene watches him go before raising his hands to his head and pressing at his temples. His cock is inappropriately hard in his trousers and he knows exactly why though he won't ever admit it.
“Damn,” he says, leaning back against his desk and willing the damned thing down.
Monday
If there's a quiet day in the last week of the month Gene makes an attempt to fill out the more important pieces of paper that litter his desk. He never used to bother with even that but he eventually got tired of Sam's dirty looks every time he was in the office.
Today is that day, apparently. Chris and Ray have been left to clean up the rest of yesterday's mess and leave Gene free to fill out paper all day. Normally he'd be less than pleased by that – but even he'd rather be doing this than dealing with that blag.
Sam's voice distracts him from the outer office as he laughs at something someone's said. Probably Cartwright. Sam's got a thing for indulging her – Gene doesn't know where Sam gets his ideas from.
Gene feels something stir in his chest at Annie's answering laugh but forces it down. He's not jealous because that's a ridiculous idea. Men don't get jealous of women. And they certainly don't get off thinking about coming in other blokes mouths. They don't even think about that. That's for poofs.
Gene has the horrible feeling that he's fighting a losing battle with himself – but he doesn't know what he's fighting for and what he's fighting against.
Gene shakes his head to clear it of unwanted thoughts.
Clara isn't home yet. She rang on Sunday evening to inform him that she'd be spending the week at her sister's. Gene couldn't find the strength in him to care. He thinks that this might be the end of his marriage and he's got no clue as to what to do about that. Once upon a time he might've thought about talking to Sam – the bastard seems to be good with women – but staying away from Sam is more important right now.
Gene's thoughts are circular and he's been staring at the same piece of paper for over thirty minutes without getting any further than writing in his warrant number.
Gene thinks he might be in trouble.
Tuesday
Gene normally dislikes being on a 'stakeout' with Sam – Sam speaks about things Gene doesn't understand or care about and can't be drawn on football for no apparent reason.
Tonight Gene hates being on a stakeout with Sam. Gene's been talking solidly for the past hour because Sam keeps looking at him as if he wants to Talk. Gene's been married long enough to recognise the signs. If it's one thing Gene doesn't want to do it's Talk. Not about Friday night, not about Sunday afternoon and certainly not about that fact that's he's got off whilst thinking about Sam three nights in a row.
Gene finishes a long and lengthy anecdote about his time in National Service and silence fills the car whilst he searches vainly for something else to talk about. It takes him a moment to realise that Sam is laughing. Genuinely laughing. There's a difference between the forced laugh Sam uses when he doesn't find Gene's anecdotes funny and the natural laugh Sam uses when he actually finds something funny. This is the latter.
“What are you laughing at?” Gene asks, irritated now. Sam turns his head and looks at Gene, a big stupid smile plastered over his face. Gene's not sure if he wants to hit it or kiss it. And the latter thought terrifies him. He shifts back in his seat some just in case his body decides to do either without warning him first.
“Sorry,” Sam says, shaking his head but still smiling. “It's just – I've never heard you speak for that long before.”
Gene sniffs loudly and looks away from Sam, still chuckling. It's unnerving. Particularly the way it seems to make him warm inside in a way he hasn't felt since he first met Clara. Christ he wishes Clara would come back.
“Well – I've got more to say than you might imagine,” Gene says, still avoiding looking at Sam.
“I can imagine a lot,” Sam says and although Gene knows Sam doesn't mean it like that his mind instantly goes to thoughts of Sam on his knees. He's assaulted with a completely fictional image of Sam putting that mouth to much better use and feels himself grow hard. He barely suppresses a groan as he shifts in his seat to disguise the fact from Sam.
“Gene,” Sam says, suddenly quiet. “About -”
“Did I ever tell you the story of how I met my wife?” Gene blurts over the top of Sam's voice. Sam looks at him a moment, more thoughtful than Gene would like, but still shakes his head.
Gene starts to unravel the story of how he met Clara and breathes an inner sigh of relief. Ray and Chris really can't get here to relieve them soon enough.
***
It's close to three in the morning when Gene gets back to his house, still empty and silent to him. Ray and Chris were late, of course, and then, out of great charity he thought, Gene offered Sam a lift home. Then he'd ended up having a quick whiskey when he was there. Then he'd ended up spilling his worries about his marriage in one big mess of a tale.
Sam had been sympathetic. Of course he had been sympathetic. This was Sam Tyler, Hyde nancy boy, after all. But it had made Gene feel strangely better despite the inappropriate wonderings of his mind when Sam brushed past him to go into the flat.
He had wondered if it had been deliberate. But that would mean that Sam was thinking the way Gene was and he highly doubted that.
Gene slumps onto the settee in the TV room, shifting cushions to make himself comfortable. His cock has been half-hard for hours now and, whether he likes it or not, there's something to be done about it. He sighs loudly and shifts again – making quick work of getting his trousers undone and his pants down.
He wonders for the briefest of moments if he should even pretend that he's going to get off on something other than Sam but at the barest hint of a thought about Sam his cock twitches meaningfully and he gives that concept away. It's sick, he knows, he's sick. Gene's never been anything but straight all his life but suddenly the only thing that gets him through a quick wank is the idea of Sam Tyler sucking on his cock.
He strokes a hand up and down his cock lazily, working it to full hardness while he thinks up a suitable fantasy. Maybe...
He'd corner Sam in the loos at the Station. Push him into one of the cubicles and onto his knees. Sam would be surprised, of course, but appreciative. Gene thinks that Sam is the type that would like being pushed around. There's no room for tenderness in these fantasies so it would be straight into it.
Sam would unzip Gene's trousers and pull his already hard cock out, he's never wearing pants in these fantasies, smiling to himself. Gene would wrap a hand around Sam's neck as the other man slowly slides Gene's cock into his mouth, lips stretching about it. (Gene's hand moves quicker, arrhythmic, twisting about the head on each upstroke) Sam would hum, Gene thinks, deep in his throat and Gene would feel it through him like a lightning bolt. Sam would be enthusiastic, sucking and licking in equal measure, a hand stroking what of Gene's cock he couldn't get in his mouth. Gene imagines Sam's hollowed cheeks as he slides back and focuses on the head of his cock. (A second hand now, sliding around the base of his cock, as he palms the head) Sam shifts on the tiled floor and Gene knows that Sam is hard too, painfully hard, enjoying the act as much as Gene does. Sam's head bobs up and down and Gene has to steady himself by pressing his free hand against the wall, closing his mouth around moans and breathing through his nose. It's so...(Gene arches away from the settee as he drives himself higher, teasing himself, thrusting into his own hands) Sam would know when Gene is close to coming, would draw back and slide that sinful tongue over the slit of Gene's cock as he stares up at him. (Harsh breathing now as he teeters on the edge of the big drop, holding, holding) Sam would let him come in his mouth and sometimes on his face, pulling him through every last moment, enjoying it, wanting it as much as Gene. (Gene moves his thumb just so and...
“Sam,” Gene almost shouts it as he comes, spurting all over himself and probably ruining his trousers. He drops back onto the couch as he coaxes himself through the aftershocks, left with the undeniable sensation that he's crossing a very big line.
Maybe Clara's leaving has put him into shock and because it's somehow tied into Sam in his head that's why he...enjoys this so much? Maybe this can't be explained?
Maybe it can. And Gene just doesn't want to acknowledge the explanation. He covers his eyes with the hand not covered in his own come and groans.
Gene really is in trouble.
Wednesday
Gene Hunt...is sick. Mentally.
Gene Hunt...has crossed a line.
Gene Hunt...may have to kill himself if this gets out.
Gene Hunt...may have to kill Sam if this gets out.
Gene Hunt...fancies Sam Tyler.
Gene Hunt...is absolutely buggered. And not in the physical sense.
Thursday
Gene's problems with Sam pale in comparison to what awaits him when he arrives at the Station on Thursday morning.
“When?” he barks at Chris as he bursts through the doors, trailing officers.
“It came in about half seven, Guv,” Chris answers as he struggles to keep up with Gene's longer strides.
“Where?” this is aimed at Ray, keeping pace on his right side.
“Don't know, guv,” Ray answers. “They didn't say. But probably the centre, yeah?”
Gene doesn't confirm or deny. This is one of his worst nightmares come true.
“Get on it,” Gene says. “Get everyone on it. Everyone drops everything they're working on. This is top priority. Get it?”
“Yes, guv,” Ray and Chris both answer at the same time and disappear into the chaotic CID office.
Sam is waiting in Gene's office and Gene spares him a cursory glance. Sam looks a little wild and jumpy, as if he's about to burst out of his skin.
“This isn't supposed to be happening,” Sam starts as Gene drops into his seat and pours the first whiskey of the day.
“Don't start, Sam,” Gene orders warningly. “I need you sane on this.”
“But you don't understand,” Sam says, walking around the desk so he can face Gene properly. “This isn't how it happens, when it happens. It's not...it's supposed to be next year, Birmingham. It shouldn't be happening. It doesn't make sense!”
This last is directed upwards, at God for all Gene knows, and Sam is flailing. Gene stands and grabs onto Sam's arms, stilling him.
“Listen to me, Tyler,” he says, imitating the way his sergeant used to talk. “I don't know what the hell is going on in your head but it's not something I need today. I need you to take Cartwright and start talking to anyone you can find round the shops. Ask about suspicious activity and all those other things you love so much. I need to know where that bomb is and I need to know sooner rather than later.”
“I thought I'd dealt with this,” Sam says and it takes Gene a moment to realise that Sam's talking to himself. “I thought it was over. I thought that I could control this. Why is this happening now?”
Gene does the only thing he can think of: he slaps Sam hard across the face, though maybe not as hard as he would've last week. Sam blinks at him, astonishment and then anger crossing his face. He pushes Gene hard, sending him back into his own chair. Gene barely stops himself from stumbling and keeps his eyes on Sam.
“You -” Sam starts but Gene stops him by raising a hand.
“No,” he says. “You. Do what I say and maybe whatever it is that's got your knickers in a twist will be sorted out as well.”
Sam glowers at him, vibrating with anger, but he thinks better of continuing the fight and storms out of the office shouting for Cartwright as he goes. Gene takes a deep breath and settles into his chair again. He throws back his whiskey and pours another that quickly follows the first. He keeps the tumbler in his hand as he tries to calm the mounting fear inside him.
This isn't like last time. It's not anything like it. This is real, he can feel it, this is what he's been worried about since March. He doesn't want to be afraid. He doesn't want his men to see him like this – but you'd have to be madder than a march hare to not be afraid of the idea of bomb going off in Manchester city. A bomb that the phone call had suggested would hurt a lot of innocent people.
He hurls the glass across the pretend room, watching absently as it shatters against the partition wall, fragments coating every surface. It's a pointless act but it makes him feel better. Better enough to get back to the job of shouting at people until they find the bomb.
***
“Have you slept at all?” It's Sam's voice and it startles Gene out of wherever he's been for the last ten minutes. He shakes his head before looking up to see Sam, dishevelled and pale in his doorway.
“Got to be ready to move,” Gene says, surprised when his voice cracks over the words. Sam shakes his head as he moves to slump onto the settee next to him.
CID is a quiet hum now – nearly three o'clock in the morning and still no-one has a clue where the bomb is. The bomber, claiming to be an IRA man, gave them a time: noon on Friday. Nine hours to go before a bomb destroys part of Gene's beloved city and they're still no closer to find the damned thing.
“You've got to rest, Gene,” Sam says quietly and Gene can hear his own weariness echoed in Sam's voice. “You're no use to anyone like this.”
“It's my city they want to hurt, Sam,” Gene says, resisting a sudden urge to lean against Sam's shoulder. “I can't sleep.”
“I can wake you,” Sam says, touching a hand to Gene's shoulder for a moment. “As soon as something happens.”
Gene takes a small amount of comfort from Sam's touch and is annoyed at himself for it. He must be tired because Sam's making sense. He hasn't slept in nearly twenty-four hours and he knows that he's not thinking clearly at all.
“Maybe -” he says. “Maybe just an hour.”
Sam nods and pushes himself wearily off the settee leaving it free for Gene to stretch out on. Sam looks down at him for a moment, his expression haunted by something Gene can't place. Gene lets his eyes fall shut on that image, of Sam watching over him, and drifts into sleep.
Friday. Again.
Sam's inexplicable hunch gets them the location of the bomb with enough time to spare to evacuate people. Gene doesn't know what makes Sam think of the Arndale development but he's glad Sam did. They evacuate the area and wait for someone qualified to deal with the bomb.
The expert is a tidy man of little words that walks into the development quietly and exits noisily. The bomb detonation is louder than anything Gene's ever heard. A fountain of dust and debris shoots up from the centre of the blast as the ground shakes. Gene pushes Sam and Cartwright to the ground and covers them with his own bulk as the debris rains down upon them. Half a gaudy yellow tile hits him on the shoulder but doesn't break anything.
Everything around Gene is muted and everyone is shouting to be heard at all. Sam and Gene stand in the middle of the chaos and share a moment of empathy that Gene thinks he will never experience again. Sam's eyes are wide and bright with the shock of the explosion and Gene has a fierce urge to grab onto him to make sure he's still there. Cartwright takes care of that for him.
Sam speaks two words, so quietly that Gene can't actually hear them but he sees them form on Sam's lips.
“I'm sorry.”
***
Gene doesn't realise that he's still covered with the dust from the blast until Sam gives him a significant look when he shows up at his door. Sam wordlessly steps aside and lets Gene into his flat then disappears into the tiny bathroom. He returns in a moment with a wet cloth and Gene takes it gratefully, exchanging it for the twelve year-old scotch he's brought from the Arms.
Sam doesn't appear surprised to see him, Gene notes as he wipes his face and casts his jacket onto a chair back. Gene wonders, not for the first time, if Sam really has been thinking the way he has this week. He shakes the thought loose and takes the offered glass of whiskey. Sam drops into another chair and Gene finds himself perched on the end of Sam's inadequate bed.
Gene's not really sure why he's here. He watches Sam turn his own tumbler of whiskey in his hands, fingers tracing the patterns etched into the glass.
“Sorry for what?” Gene asks and his voice is rough from a day of shouting.
“Everything,” Sam says, eyes cast downwards still, still turning the glass without drinking.
“What, if any of it, is your fault?” Gene asks, feeling the familiar irritation rising in his chest again. But now it's coupled with something else.
“I -” Sam starts to speak then shakes his head and puts the tumbler aside. He drops to his knees in front of Gene and grabs Gene's hands. Gene feels himself instinctively pull back from Sam and feels that sinking sensation he's associated with Sam-based erections. Sam looks up at him and Gene thinks that he's not seen him look so exhausted and wretched for a long time.
“I shouldn't have come back,” Sam says finally, eyes boring into Gene's. “I shouldn't be here. None of this should have happened. The fear and the horror. It's not supposed to happen like this.”
“Gladys, you're making even less sense than usual,” Gene says, pulling his hands away and hoping that Sam didn't notice how long he let him hold onto them. He pats Sam on the shoulders in what he hopes is a comforting manner and reminds his cock that this is really not the time.
“No!” Sam shouts and Gene is taken aback. Sam knocks his hands away and surges up, towering over Gene for the first time in their grudging partnership. He points at Gene. “You don't understand, guv.”
Sam spits the last word and this is familiar at least. Gene likes this better than the broken Sam that he doesn't have a clue how to help. Problem is – Gene has neither the inclination nor the desire to fight with Sam tonight. Which is a first.
“Why don't you make me understand?” Gene asks, slowly, and watches as Sam blinks, surprised. “I'm tired, Sam. And probably suffering shock. For once, in this very long and annoying partnership, I really can't be bothered with a fight.”
Sam looks a little shocked himself. He falls back into his chair and throws back the whiskey.
“You – you can never understand,” Sam says, more to himself than to Gene and it irks him.
“That future thing, eh?” Gene asks, playing a trump card he's rarely thought of using. Now Sam looks like he's been slapped.
“Annie,” he says finally. Gene nods.
“She gets worried. She – all that nonsense with Vic Tyler,” Gene says by way of explanation, hoping Sam doesn't want something more coherent. He pushes himself off the bed and moves around the room, inactivity's never suited Gene.
“She cares about me,” and again it's Sam speaking to himself instead of Gene. Gene feels a flash of anger as his mind habitually looks back to Friday night. Last Friday night.
“If she cares about you why are you playing about with her?” Gene asks, sounding angrier than he thought he had the energy for.
“Playing about?” Sam's voice is confused.
“Friday night, Tyler,” Gene grinds out, turning to stare down at Sam. Sam's face dissolves into understanding and then he smiles. The smug bastard.
“I wondered what had got you so worked up this week,” Sam says, relaxing into his seat more. Gene resists the urge to punch the smart right out of the him.
“Cartwright's a good lass, might even make a good copper one day,” Gene says. “And she deserves better than to be messed around by some bent, United supporting, poofter.”
Sam looks at him sharply. “You think...you think I'm gay?”
The laughter is loud in the small room. Gene doesn't appreciate the way it goes straight to his cock – but he's got used to his body reacting to things he doesn't it want it to this week.
“I'm not gay, Gene,” Sam says seriously, when the laughter fades, but the smile still hovers about his lips.
“Then what?” Gene asks. “You had your cock in another man's mouth – in what special world is that not gay?”
“Gene,” Sam continues, still serious but still smiling. “The world's not divided between gays and straights. There's something in between.”
“Bollocks,” Gene grunts, leaning against the wall. “You're one or the other. You can't be both.”
“I beg to differ,” Sam says and there's something wicked about the smile now. “I like women as much as I like men – in different ways. I like cocks the same way I like tits, vaginas the same way I like arses. The word is bisexual, Gene, add it to your not unlimited vocabulary.”
Sam's watching him and Gene wonders if Sam can see right through him. See him struggling with the concept of fancying women and men equally. He doesn't want to accept the idea. Mostly because if he accepts the idea he really will have to accept that he fancies Sam. Clara really did pick the worst week to leave.
Sam stands and crosses the room to lean against the wall beside Gene.
“You know – you could've just said something,” Sam says and Gene starts, Sam really is a mind reader. “I know you've...you've got problems with homosexuality. I'm sorry if I've made you uncomfortable.”
There's something in Sam's voice that strikes him as plaintive and he realises, belatedly, that Sam might be worried for his job. It's a stupid worry – Sam is, as much as Gene hates to admit it, a bloody good copper. One of the best. Despite his strange ways.
“I could hardly say -” Gene stops himself in time but, in the dull light of Sam's flat he figures, why the hell not. “I could hardly just mention in general conversation that it made me randy could I? Not really something you discuss with your DI.”
Now it's out it sounds foolish to Gene. Nothing at all like Sam's big secret. He looks at Sam sideways and finds Sam staring at him, curiosity and something else.
“What made you randy?” Sam asks and Gene can feel their relationship changing in that moment. In for a penny, in for a pound. He turns so that he's facing Sam but still leaning against the wall, he needs its support.
“You getting your cock sucked,” Gene says, simply. “Then later...just you.”
Sam's eyes widen and his pupils dilate as he takes in the meaning of Gene's words. It's an expression Gene recognises. It's lust. That surprises him. But not as much as Sam grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him down for a breath-stealing kiss. There's more passion in that one kiss than Gene's felt in the last five years of his marriage. He knows he should push Sam away – that there is nothing about this that could ever be regarded as a good idea – but he can't bring himself to do it. Sam is warm against him, hard where a woman would be soft, restless as he slides a hand around Gene's neck and another down to pull them closer together. Sam tilts his head and suddenly Gene can taste all of the other man – mint and whiskey and whatever foreign muck he's had for his tea – tongues twisting desperately against each other. Gene finally puts his hands on Sam, wrapping them around his slighter waist. They both shift and suddenly Gene's cock is pressing against Sam through his trousers. He gasps and breaks the kiss, breathing hard and looking down at Sam.
“You really want this?” Sam asks, as if to reassure himself that he's not about to take advantage of Gene.
In answer Gene grinds his hips into Sam's and feels Sam's cock bump against his own. Sam's eyes close briefly and then he smiles wickedly at Gene.
“I'll take that as a yes,” he whispers against Gene's neck before kissing and biting down it. Sam's got a hand between them frantically working at Gene's trousers and Gene follows suit – letting Sam lead in this. Eventually they both remember how to work a zip and get each others trousers open and pants down. Gene's so hard he thinks that he may die before he gets a chance to come and wouldn't that just be perfect. He can't bear to look down – it's one thing thinking about another man and another thing looking at that other man's cock. He buries his head in Sam's neck instead, tasting Sam's skin. Sam's hand wraps around Gene's cock and it's strange but fantastic – it's been too long since someone other than Gene has touched Gene's cock. Sam strokes a few times and Gene grips Sam's hips so hard it will bruise.
“Christ,” Sam says. “You weren't kidding.”
Gene growls low in his throat and moves so he can press Sam against the wall with his bulk. Sam moans as his back slams into the wall and Gene smiles against his throat, he knew he was right. Sam bucks up against him as he strokes Gene's cock and Gene gets the idea that maybe he ought to be doing something too. He feels around and lays a hand on Sam's cock, it's strange but doesn't feel wrong. He strokes it the way he likes to be stroked, absently comparing the size to his own because, after all, he's still Gene Hunt. Sam arches against him as Gene teases the head of his cock.
“Here,” Sam pants, pushing Gene's hand away and Gene worries that he's done something wrong, then; “Just,” and suddenly both of their cocks are pressed together and Gene's not sure if he's ever felt anything like it before. Sam slides his hand around both of them, still arching up to Gene and Gene feels himself thrusting into Sam's grip. He moves his own hand to press against the wall so he's not completely smothering Sam with his body. There's absolutely no rhythm to this as both men push against each other – Sam's hand working furiously between them.
It's better than any fantasy Gene's ever had.
“Sam, Sam,” Gene can't help himself, driving forward against Sam. Sam's answer is a heated moan and a desperate whispering of Gene's name.
“Please,” Gene says this time, pulling his head back enough to look into Sam's eyes. He's close and high, body shaking with effort and Sam looks...Sam looks amazing writhing before him. It reminds him of the girl so long ago but this, this is so much better than that could ever have been. Sam licks his lips and Gene ducks his head to kiss them again, thrust his tongue between them into the warmth of Sam's mouth.
Sam strokes harder and runs a thumb over the head of Gene's cock, pressing into the slit and Gene is coming, hard and gasping, trembling. Sam comes one stroke later, his long moan trapped in Gene's mouth. They break apart and Gene's not sure he can hide the wonder on his face. By the look on Sam's he's not managed it. Sam smiles, but it's not smug or self-indulgent, it's honest. Gene smiles back and tries to catch his breath.
“Now,” Sam says, shifting and tucking his spent cock away. “What was that you were saying about not being both?”
Gene lashes out, but good humouredly, and Sam ducks his half-hearted punch, grinning now. Gene laughs and manages to get himself put away as well. He sinks down onto the bed again, legs not really wanting to hold him up any more, and Sam joins him, though a little further along.
“You'll be the death of me, Sam Tyler,” is all Gene seems to have the breath for. Something unidentifiable passes across Sam's face but when Gene looks harder it's gone.
“I certainly hope not,” Sam says and he raises a hand to trace his fingers over Gene's cheek. Gene leans into the touch and spares Sam another smile, softer.